Bookstorm

Literary deal-breakers are nothing new to me. It used to be that I wouldn't show the slightest interest in a woman who didn't read, but I've since refined that philosophy a bit. My last girlfriend loved Chuck Palahniuk, which didn't set off warning bells at the time. Now, it would. She was psychotic. (The fact that I hate Palahniuk matters little, since I only read Haunted after borrowing it from her. He's an awful writer.) She even had the crazy-girl gleam in her eyes, something which I'd always found disturbing. Thankfully, mind-blowing sex temporarily washed away the feeling that she'd slit my throat, or worse, while I was sleeping.

In the end, we broke up after a few months, not over Palahniuk, but because she was always telling me to read Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty trilogy. Not only do I find erotica to be utterly dull, but Rice looks just like my grandmother. And that's extremely creepy.

A little more than halfway through Jesus Camp, I found myself on the verge of laughter, a reaction that some might deem inappropriate, given how provocative the film is supposed to be. Then again, maybe not: my amusement came when Ted Haggard, the former president of the National Association of Evangelicals, makes an appearance, in all his creepy, gay-bashing glory. Haggard, you'll remember, resigned his position when revelations came out that he'd been spending quality time with a male prostitute, where the two would meet in hotel rooms, using methamphetamines and--well, you get the picture. I'm not all surprised by Haggard's behavior; hypocrisy in religious figures is something I take for granted. Sin all you want--as long as you're "saved," as long as you repent, you should still have a one-way, first-class ticket to heaven.

After Haggard's appearance--which made me want to pause the movie and take a shower--my amusement stayed with me. Then I realized it had been there all along, simmering just below the surface. I wasn't shocked by Jesus Camp's revelations; anyone who's paid even the smallest bit of attention to the Bush administration and its policies is well aware of the growing influence the Christian right has had over American politics. Their message, it seems, is that nothing matters anymore; Christ is coming back, bringing hellfire and judgment, to take believers away from an increasingly cynical and immoral world (or at least the part of the world that has the temerity to disagree with their views).

But Jesus Camp is disturbing on a number of levels, most of all because it gives an undiluted glimpse at the warped morality of a movement that's been blurring the sacred line between church and state. The film isn't surprising at all, though it's interesting and amusing to note how seriously these people take their faith. Speaking in tongues, ridiculous prayers to pews and microphones, tear-streaked faces during Pentecostal sermons are all featured (I kept waiting for someone to start handing poisonous snakes to the children), as are interviews with parents. The families seem pretty happy and well-adjusted, but I wonder if that's the result of their sheltered existence in a small, sheltered town. (As one parent so insightfully puts it, "There are two kinds of people in the world: people who love Jesus, and people who don't." It should be noted that this same parent homeschools her two sons and, in one puzzling scene, dismisses climate change and the theory of evolution as unimportant.)

Sure, it's easy for secularists to simply dismiss Evangelicals as ignorant and even stupid, but Jesus Camp, thankfully, is unbiased: without any narration, the filmmakers let the true believers speak for themselves: these are people who believe that the Bible should be interpreted literally, that the Earth has only existed for six thousand years, and that Armageddon, as described in the Book of Revelation, is going to happen in this lifetime. This is a movement that would likely view nuclear war as the greatest thing to happen since the Crucifixion.

More than anything, Jesus Camp serves as a reminder of why I dismissed Christianity in the first place: the preachers (and, in some cases, the parents) instill a profound sense of guilt and self-hatred in their flock for possessing something as fundamental as (God-given?) human nature. We've gotten used to walking on eggshells around anyone of faith, which is understandable. Faith is an uncomfortable topic, one that induces awkward silence more than open discussion, unless people happen to agree with certain aspects of any given religion. Jesus Camp shows an extreme side of Christianity: these people care little for democracy and basic human rights, and have even less respect for any opinions differing from their own. The prudent thing to do would be to walk away, but if Jesus Camp is any indication, that's becoming more and more difficult to do.

It's been a while since I've looked at Esquire--the magazine or the website--so I'm not sure how long this has been going around, but they have a neat feature called "Napkin Project." Be sure to check out Joshua Ferris's little story.

I stole this link from Rachel ...

I can only think of four songs about literature--Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" (Ernest Hemingway, obviously), Green Carnation's "Alone" (Edgar Allan Poe), Poe's "5 1/2 Minute Hallway" (Mark Z. Danielewski), and Mastodon's "Blood and Thunder" (Herman Melville)--but the KR Blog, thankfully, has an entire playlist for you. It's not exactly to my taste--my music is silly, filled with unintelligible vocals and ridiculously fast drumming--but it offers up an eclectic mix of artists and authors. Raise those devil horns, kids: "For Whom the Bell Tolls" makes the cut.

Of all the books I've read recently, Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore is, without doubt, my favorite. This is my first outing with Murakami, and the only thing I'm certain of is that he's incomparable; I can't think of anyone, living or dead, who writes the way he does. The book itself is bizarre, spooky, and mind-bending--talking cats, mackerel falling from the sky, and even Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame all figure prominently in the plot. Imagine that feeling you get when you first wake up from one of the weirdest dreams you've ever had, and you're pretty close to knowing what reading this book is like. Murakami has an ethereal, light-as-a-feather writing style, which contrasts nicely with the story's darker elements. Sure, one could easily label Kafka on the Shore as postmodern, but it's not of the Thomas Pynchon or James Joyce variety; Murakami is fun.

Still no surprises at the Tournament of Books: Round Seven goes to Tom McCarthy.

I know, this year's literary March Madness is a snooze, but I'm particularly interested in Round Seven: Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach versus Tom McCarthy's Remainder. (I've been calling this round the Battle of Britain.) I've never read anything by McEwan (nor have I ever really had the urge to do so), and Remainder was pretty good, despite getting silly about halfway through, but after putting Round Seven's judge, Ze Frank, through the Google wringer, I'm going to make a prediction: Remainder triumphs.

Here's another excerpt from Pauline Kiernan's Filthy Shakespeare--this time, taking a look at Sonnet 135:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
With thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

Even without the puns rendered into modern English, this sonnet, like most of Shakespeare's sonnets, already throbs with sexual energy. And it seems Shakespeare, who wouldn't take "No" for an answer, was something of a swordsman in his day:

While other women can only wish for sex, your sexual desires are fulfilled by your Will, and you'd get Will's prick into the bargain, in fact you'd get an excess of Will's fucking.

I can fuck you better than all your lovers put together and I'll keep tormenting you with my sexual advances: I can add another prick to your sweet cunt.

Will you not, with that vagina of yours which is large and spacious from so much use by other men, just once let me hide my prick in your cunt?

Are you saying that other men seem well-hung to you but you don't find my prick acceptable? The sea is all water, but it still receives rain, and adds to it abundantly. It's the same with you. Even though you're already rich in the pricks of all your lovers, I'm asking you to add my prick to your vagina--to make it even larger. My cock's already got a hard-on just by looking at you and now it's bigger. Stop saying 'No', unkind lady, stop killing my perfectly reasonable sexual advances. Think of all your lovers as being a single one, and treat me as the only one you want to fuck, the sole occupier of your cunt--your Will.

And for Kiernan's explanations of the puns:

Whoever hath her wish. While other women wish for sex.
Will. Christian name.
Will. Prick.
More than enough. Bragging that he can fuck better than all other lovers put together.
Will. Cunt, vagina.
Gracious. Well-endowed with all the graces (i.e. genitals), well-hung.
Will. Sexual desire.
Will. In the last line, 'Will' puns on all four meanings: Christian name, prick, cunt, sexual desire.

They certainly won't be teaching that in English class. Shame.

I've thought long and hard about what the following post will do for my blog statistics ...

I was standing in the Shakespeare section of the bookstore, about to buy Othello, when I noticed a little book called Filthy Shakespeare, by Pauline Kiernan. I began flipping through the book, recalling the plays I was familiar with--Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and A Midsummer Night's Dream--and was soon snickering at some of the dirtiest puns I'd ever come across.

"You like that, don't you?"

She was a pretty blonde, about my age--maybe a few years younger--standing several feet away, smiling and watching me. A college student, most likely. I chuckled in response. "Yeah, it's pretty good," she said, looking at the book and nodding.

"You've read this?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah," she said. Her smile widened. "It's dirty." She took a copy of the book from the shelf and began flipping through it, occasionally pausing to read. "Here we go. I've always wanted to try this," she said, winking at me and giggling. "Go to page eighty-five."

I quickly found the section and glanced over it. Othello, Act 2, Scene 1. Under the heading "Desdemona Talks Dirty."

"All right," she said, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. The she stood straighter, eyes sparkling. "You're Iago. I'm Desdemona." I stared at her, wondering if she was serious. She urged me on by fluttering her eyelashes and smiling demurely.

I laughed and tossed off all my American sensibilities, suddenly relishing the idea of talking dirty to a literary woman I'd never met--in a bookstore, of all places. I'd probably never have this opportunity again.

We ran through the original exchange with our eyes glued to the text:

Desdemona: What wouldst write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?
Iago: O, gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I'm nothing if not critical.
Desdemona: Come on, essay-- ...
Iago: I am about it, but indeed my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does the frieze--
It plucks out brains and all. But my muse labours,
And thus she is delivered:
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
Desdemona: Well praised! How if she be black and witty?
Iago: If she be black and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white hat that shall her blackness fit.
Desdemona: Worse and worse.

Then we ran through it once more, this time with the puns translated. (The original puns, of course, would've been familiar to theater-goers in Shakespeare's time.) We spoke softly, snickering before saying our lines. Strangely enough, we found it easy to make eye contact.

Desdemona: What would you write about me, if you were going to praise me?
Iago: A cunt, gentle lady. Do not encourage me to fuck you, for my prick's nothing if not fussy.
Desdemona: Come to an orgasm, try.
Iago: I'm trying to achieve one but when it comes to the act of sex I get my stimulus from my own penis-head when the spunk comes. But my inspiration has come, and this is how I would praise you: if she is fair and wise, there will be a vagina and a prick--the one's for being fucked, the other fucks it.
Desdemona: Well praised! What if she's black and witty?
Iago: If she's black, and has a cunt, she'll find a cock that will fit her cunt.
Desdemona: Your lewdness gets worse and worse.

"That was great," she said, throwing back her head and laughing. I'd already decided I was going to buy the book, but I was busy looking over Kiernan's notes, which explain the terms and their usage in Shakespeare's time:

O. Cunt. ['O' refers to any circle, ring, or hole]
Put me to't. Encourage me to fuck you.
Nothing. Prick. ['Nothing' can denote any orifice]
Come on. Come to an orgasm.
About. A sexual bout.
Indeed. Sex-act. ['To do' means 'to fuck']
Invention. Stimulus.
Pate. The head of the penis.
Birdlime. Sticky substance to trap small birds, and a pun on spunk.
Brains. Balls. [Part of the brain that resembled testicles. 'Barren-brained' means without balls, impotent]
All. Prick. [Punning on 'awl', a boring-tool]
Fairness. Vagina, as in 'fair parts'.
Wit. Prick. [Punning on 'wight', meaning 'man']
For use. For fucking. ['To use' is 'to fuck']
Useth it. Fucks it.
Wit. Cunt. [Punning on 'white' in archery, a white patch of cloth at the center of the target]
White. Cock. [Punning on 'wight', meaning man]
Blackness. Cunt. ['Blackness' suggests 'hell', this being a frequent word for cunt ...]
Worse. 'Worse' is a frequent pun on the sound of the word 'whores'.
Fit. Fit Desdemona's 'blackness', i.e. her cunt.

I know this might seem pretty far-fetched, because we don't usually like to imagine Shakespeare having a filthy mind, but taken with Kiernan's brilliant and informative introduction--which explains the sexual attitudes of Elizabethan England and how Shakespeare exploited language and context to veil his dirty puns (think of our own seemingly-innocent terms, like "nail," "bush," and "screw" and you're already halfway there)--Filthy Shakespeare actually makes perfect sense. (We shouldn't be too surprised that he was able to do this; as Kiernan notes, it's estimated that Shakespeare had a vocabulary of an astonishing 29,000 words; by contrast, the average British university graduate has a vocabulary of a mere 3,000 to 4,000 words.) Yes, this is one of the dirtiest, funniest books I've ever read--these puns would shame the editors of Hustler--but the book is also a wonderful feast of language that will greatly enrich any reading of Shakespeare.

Michael Chabon. Need I say more?